Never coming home
by Elven Fair
Summary: Young Sands first 'love'. "Karma my ass"


A/N: I had a Young!Sands bunny last night whilst listening to Sting and this happened....The song is Never Coming Home. I thought it was suitable for this. Rated R for swearing and mild violence and spiteful-asshole- young!Sands Please R/R  
  
***  
  
The rain was really pissing him off. What a lovely way to spend a fucking Sunday. He slumped in the faded chair near the window of his shit-hole of an apartment, leaned down the side of the chair into a large plastic crate and produced out a battered copy of a Superman comic and flicked through it.  
  
She ran the vacuum around the apartment floor quickly. Not knowing why she was even bothering. He never did anything around here. Why should *she* give a rat's ass? She didn't own the place. She moved closer to the old armchair he was sat in and moved the vacuum back and forth in front of him. He lifted his feet for her to clean underneath, but apart from that, he did not move.  
  
"Don't you have a job to go to, Sheldon?" she turned the vacuum off with her foot and crossed it in front of the other, leaning on the handle.  
  
He dog-eared the page impatiently. "I have the day off, if you must know." He drawled. He then leaned over to the T.V and pulled one metal ball back on his Newton's Cradle and watched it slam into the others, sending the rest off in a merry dance. He had always loved this gadget, and the fact that it annoyed the shit out of Roxanne made it worth all seven of those dollars.  
  
She rolled her eyes and groaned. "You are such a fucking child, Sheldon." She dragged the vacuum to the tiny closet and stuffed it in, slamming the door. Why did she put up with him anyway? She often wondered that, late at night, before he returned from training for the CIA. She could have been so much more, but oh no, she had to choose a guy over a future. What a mistake that was. She knew that at CIA training, Sheldon had learned not to do things for revenge. It was a rule. She, however, did not have to live by those rules...  
  
***  
  
He wandered in later than usual. "Roxanne?" What the hell? Where the hell was she? She only had a 9-5 a few blocks away, she shouldn't be this late home.  
  
The tiny fire in one corner of the living room blazed happily as he moved over to the faded chair near the window and reached down the side into the plastic crate,  
  
The *empty* plastic crate.  
  
He looked down just to make sure. No, he wasn't going mad; there defiantly weren't any comic books in the crate.  
  
He surveyed the room carefully. Where the hell were they? He sure as hell hadn't moved them so that only left Roxanne. Stupid bitch. Why the fuck would she move them? His eyes settled on the fire.  
  
"She wouldn't." he breathed as he pushed himself up from the chair and crossed the room to the fire place and gazed into the flames. And the remains of his comic collection.  
  
"Bitch!" He spat angrily as he turned down the fire desperately trying to save the charred remains of his only means of literature in the whole apartment. "Bitch!" He yelled as it became apparent to him that this was pointless. He scooped the ashes into the plastic crate and stuffed it into the corner before returning to his chair and leaning over to move the metal balls on his Newton's cradle.  
  
He knocked the ball gently and watched in dismay as the whole thing fell apart. "Bitch!" She had cut the strings of his favourite gadget. He fumed silently before he stalked into the kitchen where the booze was. He poured himself a shot of vodka and moved back into the living room. He opened the cabinet and turned on the record player. Downing his vodka, he chose the closest record at hand and opened the sheath and cover.  
  
And almost screamed. He franticly emptied all of the records onto the floor. Well, all of the shards of the records. That bitch had smashed all of his records!  
  
He clenched his fist before leaving for the kitchen and returning with the vodka bottle. This was going to be a long night.  
  
***  
  
She opened the door hesitantly. It would have been a good idea to just not come back. But she couldn't leave right now; she didn't have any of her things. She crept along the hall and froze as she entered the living room and he light switched on.  
  
"Bitch." she heard him murmur.  
  
"Good evening, Sheldon" she almost whispered. "Whatever is the matter?"  
  
He raised a delicate eyebrow in disbelief. "What the fuck did you do all this shit for?" He asked patiently. Almost as if he was asking her for the time.  
  
She always hated it when he used that bored, drawn out tone with her. Her hands, in fists, went to her hips and she bent her jeaned leg at the knee. "Hmm, I wonder."  
  
He stood up and swayed slightly. He was drunk and they both knew it. And that meant trouble, and they both knew it. He moved towards her and slapped her hard. "Bitch. Why did you ruin my shit?" he added another hard slap to that sending her stumbling backwards her hand to her cheek.  
  
"Fuck you! I did you a fucking favour! When you aren't at your freaking training you just sit and do jackshit. You're a nobody outside of work you know that, Sheldon? You're a stupid little nobody going nowhere!" She yelled angrily.  
  
He didn't hesitate. He stepped towards her with open arms and gentle eyes and a gentle tone "Roxanne, Roxanne. Why, you have it all wrong." His arms dropped to his sides and his eyes went flat. "I'm not the nobody here." He slurred. "You are! You're the one stuck in a dead end job. I'm going places, baby, you just can't see that yet."  
  
Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She shook her head angrily. "You are such an asshole, Sheldon." She muttered quietly.  
  
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. That's life ent it?" He drawled as he moved towards the bedroom. Leaving her alone in the living room, crying silently.  
  
***  
  
Sheldon Jeffrey Sands woke up in bed alone. It was eight a.m. Fuck. He was going to be late. He made to sit up and he felt as if a million guns went off in his head at once. Fuck.  
  
**I wake up in an empty bed a road drill hammers in my head  
  
I call her name there's no reply it's not like her to let me lie  
  
It's time for work it's time to go but something's different I don't know  
  
I need a cup of coffee I'll feel better**  
  
"Roxanne?" he called out as he stumbled away from bed towards the bathroom. His foot came into contact with her makeup bag which he kicked sending it skidding across the floor before it hit the bath with a clunk. "Inconsiderate bitch." He muttered.  
  
**I stumble to the bathroom door, her make up bag is on the floor  
  
It really is a mess this place it takes some time to shave my face**  
  
He shaved his face quickly being careful not to cut himself, but still nicking the skin here and there in his haste.  
  
He pulled his pants on and grabbed his shirt from the back of his chair and buttoned it up oddly cursing all the while. He grabbed his black tie from the foot of the bed before dashing into the kitchen and flicking the switch on the coffee pot. He slung his tie around his neck and began tying it when he noticed a letter propped up infront of the toaster.  
  
**I'm not really thinking straight she never lets me sleep this late  
  
I'm almost done and then I see the letter**  
  
He read it whilst he poured his coffee. It was, of course, from Roxanne, telling him he was an asshole, and that she couldn't live with him any more and all she wanted was her freedom and her happiness. She told him she was never coming home. The last thing she wrote was "Karma".  
  
**In his imagination she's a universe away  
  
Too many of his promises got broken on the way  
  
So she wrote it in a letter all things she couldn't say  
  
And she told him she was never coming home**  
  
"Karma my ass." He scowled before burning his hand on the coffee pot.  
  
** She told him she was never coming home,** 


End file.
